


Cold, Confident, and Competent

by untilitbreaks



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (And calculated), Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, I’m sorry for this, M/M, but it’s not graphic, if there was a sequel there’d be romance I promise, mentions of the yakuza, some random people die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 07:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13542285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untilitbreaks/pseuds/untilitbreaks
Summary: They both knew the real reason why Shirabu hadn’t followed Semi’s path yet.It’s because I’m cold, vindictive, arrogant, cheap, and because I work poorly with others. All great characteristics to put on a resume, in my opinion.“Anyway,” Shirabu said, in a forceful change of subject, “the yakuza don’t pay well enough for what they ask for. I’m getting paid per job or I’m not advertising my services.”Semi smirked. “Now that’s my favorite murderer-for-hire.”Shirabu glowered at him. “I don’t think of it as that. Can’t you lower your voice, Semi-san?”





	Cold, Confident, and Competent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeathBelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathBelle/gifts).



> This came about as the result of a conversation I had on DeathBelle’s The Loyalty of a Traitor (if you haven’t read it yet I would seriously recommend it, along with all of their other works), and while I’m slightly ashamed of how hard this was to write and the direct influence on its quality because of this, there really does need to be more Shirabu content on this website.
> 
> I have no regrets.

The time was a minute later than the time Shirabu had been promised, but it was a minute longer than he had to wait around.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Semi said, shedding his jacket as he sat down across from Shirabu. “There was traffic.”

“Was there really?” Shirabu said flatly. He slid Semi a menu and Semi took it eagerly. “I don’t recall there being any on my way up here.”

“We came from different directions,” Semi said. He didn’t looked up from the menu. “Nice work, by the way.”

Shirabu scowled. He didn’t need Semi to tell him that, nor did he want Semi referencing it at all.

Semi Eita was one of the few people that knew both of Shirabu’s work and his real identity, and unfortunately took it upon himself to bring up the topic as often as he could, if only to rub in the fact that Semi had so cleverly put together the pieces of Shirabu’s public and personal life—and the debate as to which was which.

If that had been Semi’s only fault, he might have been a halfway decent person to spend one’s time with. But it wasn’t, and Shirabu wouldn’t waste his time on business meetings like this one if they weren’t to preserve the tedious balance of mutual respect between him and Semi.

Shirabu raised an eyebrow and sat back in his seat with crossed arms. “You just don’t want to talk about why you’re late, Semi-san. Were you at a hair appointment? It looks like you redyed it. Tacky as ever, in my opinion.”

“Right you are, Shirabu. You’re as sharp as ever.”

Shirabu’s eye twitched. “I have to be.”

“Sure you do. Not everyone has the talent to swindle the yakuza.”

Shirabu glared at him, and Semi grinned triumphantly, knowing that he’d won. Shirabu had talked with him multiple times requesting that he didn’t talk publicly about his work, but Semi had never heeded his warnings, despite the power Shirabu had over him.

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Shirabu said curtly.

Semi opened his mouth like he was going to respond, but was interrupted by their server. Semi ordered some type of expensive wine that Shirabu couldn’t have cared less about, and Shirabu resigned himself to water, grimacing at the thought of having to pay a hefty price after their meal.

And then Semi asked Shirabu if he was ready to order his food, and without giving Shirabu a real chance to order, requested the most pricey item on the menu including shrimp.

Two could play at that game—and it might even end up being worth it. Semi was typically more cooperative when he was a little tipsy and well-fed.

“I don’t know why you don’t just join already,” Semi mused, shaking his head. Shirabu knew exactly what he meant, and the anticipation of his words made his skin crawl. “Your job wouldn’t be so dangerous anymore. You have connections, so any syndicate you wanted could take you in. “

“Why would I join the yakuza? I don’t want to be like you. Say one wrong thing and you lose a couple fingers,” Shirabu said, disgusted at the thought. “Nobody would want me around, anyway. I’ve worked for everyone in the area at some point, so I wouldn’t trust me, either.”

“That’s a little extreme to say,” Semi said. “But I think you’re crafty enough to get by that. And you’re useful, too. You could even send in a nice resume.”

Shirabu only shrugged. They both knew the real reason why Shirabu hadn’t followed Semi’s path yet.

_It’s because I’m cold, vindictive, arrogant, cheap, and because I work poorly with others. All great characteristics to put on a resume, in my opinion._

Shirabu was saved from having to come up with a proper reply by the arrival of their food. Semi thanked their waitress gratuitously, and Shirabu wondered distantly if he was going to attempt to flirt with her even though he also allowed Tendou to hang off him whenever they were in the same vicinity.

“Anyway,” Shirabu said, in a forceful change of subject, “the yakuza don’t pay well enough for what they ask for. I’m getting paid per job or I’m not advertising my services.”

Semi smirked—unhelpfully, in Shirabu’s opinion. “Now that’s my favorite murderer-for-hire.”

Shirabu glowered at him. “I don’t think of it as that. Can’t you lower your voice, Semi-san?”

Semi disregarded his latter statement. “What do you think of yourself as, then? An assassin? It sounds cooler, sure, but—”

“I don’t kill important people. It’s too dangerous.”

“Exactly my point,” Semi said. “Shirabu, your favorite food is raw baby fish. Clearly you’re well-suited to be a killer.”

Shirabu froze, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. “Can you stop talking for two seconds and let me explain myself?”

Semi snickered to himself, and Shirabu sighed. Semi was reliable and meant well at heart, but the pleasure he took in annoying Shirabu was simply frustrating at the point he’d driven it to.

Technically, Shirabu didn’t have to cooperate with Semi. Semi could easily spill Shirabu’s deepest secrets and hand him over to the police, but in doing that he’d have to expose himself. And it was more likely that Semi didn’t care enough to turn him in. It was an inconvenience that neither Semi nor Shirabu wanted to deal with.

But allies were important, and if Semi could one day offer Shirabu an alibi, Shirabu had to be willing to cooperate with him. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Semi said. Shirabu had to resist the urge to call him out on the lack of truth behind his words. “I won’t interrupt, continue.”

It was a terrible idea to allow Semi to get on his nerves. Usually Shirabu didn’t—Semi was an annoyance, but he wasn’t worth Shirabu’s time. 

But this time was different. He’d suffered through a long day and had gathered enough self-control to even show up and talk to Semi, and the last thing he wanted was to be called a murderer.

_But isn’t that what you are when you scrape away the titles and embellishments?_

“I’d appreciate it if you stopped questioning the way I do things,” Shirabu said through clenched teeth. “I know how to be successful, Semi-san, and it wasn’t your advice that got me to where I am today.”

Semi narrowed his eyes. “I’m not questioning you.”

“Sure you aren’t,” Shirabu said, a pleased thrill traveling up his spine at the thought of Semi taking his bait. “Questions lead to consequences. I don’t ask questions. People don’t ask for these services without a good reason.”

“I agree with that,” Semi said. He tapped his fingers against the table in an uneven rhythm, sighing thoughtfully. “They hire you for good reason. You’re multi-talented.”

“Multi-talented”. If Shirabu’s work could have been summed up by just that, his life would be a lot simpler.

 

Once, Tendou had asked Shirabu if he’d ever put his skills to use for himself. Shirabu had asked him if he had any understanding of his job, to which Tendou insisted he did, but if he was telling the truth, he wouldn’t have asked such a question in the first place. 

It would likely be amusing to inform Tendou that the only reason why he would ever consider something so ridiculous would be because of Tendou himself. 

“I’m only forgiving you because you bought me another coffee,” Shirabu said, looking down at Tendou, unimpressed, as he dropped a wad of paper towels on the puddle of coffee on Shirabu’s office floor. “And because you didn’t put any sugar in it.”

“You’re so strange, Kenjirou-kun,” Tendou drawled. “You have such a strange way of making friends.”

Shirabu gritted his teeth and took a deep breath in an attempt to convince himself not to lash out at Tendou. He wasn’t worth his time. “Is there something you want from me?”

_Because he, like everyone else, has no reason to talk to me unless I’m useful to him._

“No, but I know someone who does want something from you,” Tendou said with an easygoing grin. “Want to hear about it, or do you want me to refer them to someone else?”

“Depends,” Shirabu said. “I have a tight schedule.”

Tendou Satori was, like Semi, one of Shirabu’s direct connections to the yakuza. Shirabu had met him just before he’d met Semi, and it had turned out later on that Semi was a mutual friend of theirs. The only reason that Tendou knew about Shirabu’s real name was because of Semi, and while Shirabu had been upset about this at the time Semi had told him, he’d since realized that it was impossible to tell one of them sensitive information and not the other.

Semi and Tendou came as an unfortunately packaged deal, and they were equally adamant in their attempts to get on Shirabu’s nerves.

“Of course you do,” Tendou said. He reached for the folder he’d dropped on Shirabu’s chair in his haste to clean up the mess he’d made. “Read this through tonight. I’m going to need an answer by tomorrow.”

While it seemed unlikely, Tendou was reliable for a multitude of reasons. He’d been the one to refer Shirabu to the office job he currently held—and the convenience of it was the only reason why Shirabu voluntarily put himself in Tendou’s presence on a daily basis—and spent far more time with the yakuza than the job he was currently working, the one that posed a benefit to society. Tendou had brought Shirabu countless job offers in the past for no charge other than that Shirabu was civil to him when they met in person.

Shirabu was smart enough to know the real reason for that, though. Shirabu was another one of Tendou’s connections, and even if it never paid off, knowing more people was a type of security net that was dangerous to pass up on.

“Thank you,” Shirabu said, his gratitude surprisingly easy to voice. He took the folder from Tendou, half expecting him to take it away from him at the last moment and make him promise to do something for him in return. “I’ll inform you of my decision in the morning.”

“You could always just text me, Kenjirou-kun. I don’t bite.”

The very thought of texting Tendou made Shirabu nauseous. He would never consider it unless it was a last resort type scenario, and this was not one. Shirabu would rather give up the job opportunity than follow through with Tendou’s suggestion. 

“See you tomorrow, Tendou-san,” Shirabu said dryly, and he glanced pointedly in the direction of the doorway.

“Sure, sure, see you later, Kenjiro-kun,” Tendou said, and waved before ambling out of Shirabu’s office.

Shirabu sat down with a sigh, tension dissolving from his shoulders as he did so. Dealing with Tendou, even for a few moments, and for a reason that would benefit him later on, was exhausting.

 _He didn’t even finish cleaning up the coffee he spilled,_ Shirabu thought scathingly, glaring at the soaking paper towels on the floor. He nudged them with his foot and sighed again. _Although I doubt he ever cared in the first place._

 

Regardless of the way his acquaintances made it sound like, Shirabu didn’t kill for no reason.

By now, he’d forgotten when, exactly, he’d gotten into the business. Someone had convinced him that it was an easy way to make money, and that Shirabu had the talent to carry out the jobs given to him, not to mention the connections that one inevitably needed to be successful as a hitman.

The only time Shirabu had ever felt something somewhat resembling nervousness as he’d started a job was the first time he’d been hired. Usually, he wasn’t the type to falter in the face of something new. And, even despite the crimes he’d committed in the past, his heart had been pounding as he’d approached the household of the man he’d been hired to kill.

Things had changed since then. Shirabu was more or less, under the protection of the yakuza as a whole, but he didn’t trust them, and he knew that they didn’t trust him, either. He was successful because of his own merit, and how careful he’d always been, and even after being in the business for years, the police had never suspected him of anything shady—not even of having connections with the yakuza, although that wasn’t considered a crime anyway.

Not everyone could kill; that much was evident by the anxiety Shirabu had felt the first time he’d been hired for murder. Not everyone could consider taking someone’s life as just a part of business. Shirabu had never been like that. He’d always despised the anxiety he’d felt when he’d first disguised himself and become a killer.

Shirabu’s heart was pounding now, too, but it wasn’t because of the same nervousness he’d experienced back then. His fingers twitched in his eagerness as he flipped open the folder Tendou had given him, revealing a simple stack of files that, in the wrong hands, could prove to be evidence for the crimes of many.

Not everyone could kill. Not everyone could treat people like cattle, and not everyone could simply pretend that a person didn’t have a life, and corroborate their crimes to the point at which death seemed like worthy punishment. Not everyone could become immune to death, especially not after contributing to it personally.

But Shirabu could, and that was why he was considered to be such a talented hitman.

The details of his latest request were, as he’d determined them to be so far, strangely specific. It was typical of clients to give him the date and place at which they’d like Shirabu’s work to be carried out at. Shirabu wouldn’t even go so far as it so say that it was uncommon for clients to request an exact time, because, depending on the circumstances, his work could often only be successful when being carried out during a particular time frame. 

This, though, was different. Typically Shirabu wouldn’t question his clients—never verbally, as this was more likely to earn him enemies than clarify any questions he had, sparked purely from curiosity—but Shirabu would be lying if he claimed that this request didn’t confuse him.

_Don’t wear the color blue. Wear only white gloves if they are to be worn. Speak in a Kansai dialect or none at all. The job must not be completed if the reading of the time ends in the number five._

Suspicious, Shirabu flipped over the paper to look at the sender.

_Oikawa Tooru. That explains a lot._

Oikawa’s name was easily recognizable. If Shirabu hadn’t worked for him in the past, he might have been flattered, considering Oikawa’s long list of accomplishments, but there were numerous connections between them that might have prompted Oikawa to seek out Shirabu. Oikawa was demanding, pushy, and overly pompous, but paid well enough so that working for him was almost worth it, if one didn’t think about how easily Oikawa could carry out the deed himself, prefering to hire those who were both underneath him but also halfway competent, in his opinion. 

More surprising was that Tendou had been the one to deliver Shirabu the job offering considering Tendou’s well-known dislike for Oikawa, but Shirabu wasn’t going to question it. In Shirabu’s line of work, it wasn’t uncommon to witness such behavior that could be considered out of the norm, especially from someone such as Tendou.

Oikawa’s name was one that Shirabu recognized, but the name of his subject in question was not. Shirabu reached for his phone as he spread out the contents of the folder out on his desk, brows furrowing in confusion. He’d had connections to the yakuza—and the other, lesser known groups of Japan’s gritty underworld—for years, but the name Goshiki was completely unfamiliar to him.

It was unfortunate. As a rule, Shirabu did research on those he was meant to kill before following through with his work—not enough to actually gain a sense of who they were, but enough to make sense of what they might have done wrong to provoke anger in someone with the power to sign their death warrant unwarranted.

The easiest place to start would be to contact those he knew with enough power to give him information to go with names, providing that the man Shirabu had to kill was closely affiliated with the yakuza. If Shirabu was on better terms with Tendou and Semi, he would have gone to them, because they wouldn’t put a price on the answers to Shirabu’s questions—but he wasn’t, so that would make Shirabu’s job a lot harder.

And, if this person was anything like those Oikawa typically wanted dead, his lineage likely wasn’t playing in his favor. Many of the big names in the yakuza were easy to find online.

Shirabu frowned. Since that was the case, the name shouldn’t have been unknown to him.

_Goshiki Tsutomu, whoever you are, you can’t hide for long._

 

“Ken-ji-rou!”

Shirabu closed his eyes and reminded himself that he’d been the one to tell Tendou that they’d talk the next day. 

“So? What’s it going to be?” Tendou said. A grin was plastered across his face. It was clearly fake.

Shirabu ignored his question. “Why didn’t you tell me that the client is Oikawa?” he asked. 

Tendou shrugged. “I thought you’d figure it out. Only Oikawa wants innocent kids dead.”

“The people I kill aren’t innocent. Would you please speak quietly, Tendou-san?”

“You’re no fun,” Tendou said with a sigh. “So what’d you find out?”

“His parents are rich,” Shirabu said. He settled back in his chair, but clutched his coffee tighter. “And clearly involved with the yakuza, based on what I’ve heard from… inside sources. I think that Oikawa is just being petty and trying to get at them by killing their son, because I asked around and nobody’s ever really heard of him.”

“Oh, really? You didn’t ask me for information, Kenjirou-kun,” Tendou said.

“That wasn’t a mistake,” Shirabu said. “I’m not asking.”

“I don’t have anything to tell you anyway, if you were curious,” Tendou said. “But I do know of something you might like to know of.”

“What is it?”

Tendou clicked his tongue, and Shirabu had the urge to strangle him. “If you kept up with new hires you’d know exactly what I’m talking about. Or who, that is.” He grinned at Shirabu smugly. “I think you’d like to get to know him.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Unfortunately not,” Tendou said. “Goshiki Tsutomu now belongs to this floor, believe it or not. 

“Since when?” Shirabu demanded. His coffee almost slipped out of his grasp, but he remembered that he was holding it at the last second and put it on his desk instead. “Who hired him?”

“He starts officially today,” Tendou said. He sounded a little too pleased, too amused, at Shirabu’s surprise. “If you’re lucky you might even be able to get that job out of the way a little early.”

“I can’t do that. You know how Oikawa is. The least he’ll do is neglect to pay me,” Shirabu said, irritated. “Do you know if Oikawa has connections in this building? Is he doing this on purpose?”

_Is he trying to get Goshiki killed, or someone else?_

“I can’t answer that,” Tendou said. He stood up and stretched leisurely. “Be nice to him. “You don’t want him to spend his last days questioning where he went wrong.”

Shirabu had always been particularly adamant about keeping his two jobs separate, and he felt as though he’d done a commendable job of this considering the frequency at which Tendou liked to bother him at on a weekly basis. Shirabu had never broken his policy to a major extent, but since Tendou had revealed to him that Goshiki worked in the same building—the same _floor_ as them—Shirabu had felt indescribably uneasy.

After thinking over his options, Shirabu decided that his only real choice was to avoid Goshiki at all costs and distract himself for as long as possible, both for his own sanity and for his productivity.

Had Shirabu not left his desk all day, he probably would have accomplished this.

His mistake was his adamacy not to make eye contact with any of his coworkers. A few feet away his office after making copies, Shirabu slammed into someone, scattering his papers. Shirabu turned around, about to snap at the person—halfway expecting it to be Tendou—and his heart leapt into his throat.

“I’m so sorry!” Goshiki yelped. “That was my fault, I’m sorry—here, let me get those for you.”

He crouched down and gathered up the papers before Shirabu could stop him. Shirabu stood frozen in his position, too shocked to say anything. Goshiki straightened up and held out the papers expectantly, expression vaguely embarrassed.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Shirabu said. The words were painful to say for a number of reasons that Shirabu elected not to think about. 

“It’s—um—it’s no problem,” Goshiki said. He looked away as Shirabu took his papers from him. “I, uh—we haven’t met yet?”

_Of course we haven’t met yet._

“Shirabu Kenjirou,” Shirabu said, offering him his free hand. 

Goshiki shook it, his cheeks flushed. “Goshiki Tsutomu. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Shirabu-senpai.”

_Senpai? We aren’t in high school anymore._

Shirabu was too bewildered to do anything but nod at Goshiki politely as he returned to his desk. He didn’t feel guilty at the thought of killing him—nobody took the risk of hiring a hitman without good reason—only disconcerted, but Tendou’s statement _had_ unnerved Shirabu, and it was worse now that Shirabu could see where he was coming from. Tendou teased, but he rarely made offhand comments about the people Shirabu was hired to kill. He was well aware that Shirabu didn’t have the freedom to be picky about who he served.

_I don’t ask questions. I do my job, get paid, and never think about it again. That isn’t going to change now._

 

Shirabu wasn’t the most talented sniper in the world, but he’d been using a gun for so long it was second nature to him.

The weight of the rifle was heavy in his grasp, but comfortingly so. It was familiar, a reminder of Shirabu’s competency. Shirabu was stiff all over from sitting in the same position for so long, but his nerves were set on edge and his thoughts were racing.

When he’d been less experienced, Shirabu had gone to great lengths to cover up his tracks. He’d make sure that the main police forces of the area were occupied before carrying out a job. He’d come up with lengthy distractions, fake alibis, and fake names and fake stories. He was more confident than that now. His methods were simpler, but he was just as efficiently successful. 

He’d soon realized how the police handled gun violence. It was incorrect to say that they assumed that all killings were governed by the yakuza, but there was a degree of truth behind this. The mannerisms of Shirabu’s work were like that of the yakuza’s, and were easily written off as such. The yakuza were among the few who dared attempt Japan’s strict gun laws, and even then, many wrote guns off as another way to get caught rather than a safety measure.

Not only that, but Shirabu was rarely busy with his work as a hitman. Usually grudges brewed for years before such drastic measures were taken to attain justice. Besides that, there were several other factors that had to be taken into consideration before hiring a hitman—not that Shirabu really cared about them. He only cared for the end result.

Shirabu shifted his position slightly, but not enough to disturb the position of the gun precariously balanced against the ledge. He’d been waiting for a little over forty-five minutes in the cold, waiting for his target to emerge from the building he was across from. While he’d often constructed elaborate schemes to kill his targets in the past, he usually found it more easy to wait for them to leave a building on their own, a point in time that was, inevitably, a weakness despite security measures.

Open windows were also a decent target. That, and red traffic lights, which were rarer.

Shirabu let out a slow breath, quelling the shiver that threatened to run through him. This wasn’t an optimal opportunity to carry out a murder, but Shirabu didn’t have much of a choice. He kept his eyes carefully trained on the doorway he was aiming for, breath caught in his throat.

A millimeter off, and he’d fail. A millimeter off, and he’d ruin his chances of both getting away and getting paid.

Shirabu curled his finger around the trigger. He really wasn’t paid enough considering the work he subjected himself to.

But then again, there was also the trust that Shirabu’s clients put in him when requesting he kill for them. If Shirabu ever took the risk of turning in one of his clients, he’d gain the trust of the police, and lose the trust of his potential clients.

There would be no point.

The door opened, and Shirabu thought of Goshiki, briefly, before pulling the trigger.

There was a certain type of thrill that governed his actions when he was making a kill. There was a certain type of adrenaline rush and satisfaction at the thought of the job done correctly, and if that was all Shirabu lived for, he didn’t think it was half bad.

 

A week later, Shirabu was no closer to identifying a reason as to why he should kill Goshiki.

“Good morning, Shirabu-san!” Goshiki chirped as he passed Shirabu as he was returning to his desk after getting himself a much-needed cup of coffee. “How are you?”

_”Shirabu-san.” I think I can deal with that._

“Good. How are you?” Shirabu said. The words felt like cotton in his mouth.

“Good!” Goshiki said. If he hadn’t been in public, Shirabu felt like he might have been jumping up and down. “I think I’ve finally gotten the hang of things, you know? I want to do good.”

“Hm. Do you have someone you’re trying to impress?”

“I—ah, not really. My parents want me to do good, but I just want to do it for myself.” Goshiki grinned sheepishly. “I tend to get caught up in things, but that doesn’t mean I do them properly, but I want to do it all right this time… I’m sorry if that seems kind of personal.”

“It’s fine,” said Shirabu.

If anyone else had confessed something that sappy to Shirabu, he would have had a hard time forcing himself not to grimace outwardly. There was a reason why he didn’t have any real friends—by that definition, those he didn’t interact with for a reason. Shirabu had no idea what to say to him because nobody had confided in him in such a way in years.

And Goshiki had known Shirabu for no more than a few days.

Goshiki was a hard person to be around, for a reason Shirabu couldn’t place, but he had a feeling that it had to do with how innocent he was. The yakuza changed people; Shirabu highly doubted that hopes Goshiki had would have survived in that kind of environment.

There was no way that Goshiki was directly involved with the yakuza. By that logic, Goshiki didn’t deserve to die.

“What about you?” Goshiki asked. “Did you come here for a specific reason, or are you working for something else?”

“I don’t know,” Shirabu answered truthfully. “I’m just getting by with it, I guess. One day I’d like to do something different.”

_That’s a generic answer. It’s what most people would say if they were my age and still hadn’t settled on a true passion. It’s acceptable, because I can’t say what I actually want._

_What do I want? To do something more fulfilling than this, or reform myself?_

“Mmm… That’s how a lot of people see things.” Goshiki shrugged. “I’d like to always be working for something greater, though.”

“I see.”

“I guess I’ll see you later, then,” Goshiki said. “Thank you, Shirabu-san.”

_Why’s he thanking me? I didn’t do anything for him and I gave him a distant response at best._

Shirabu nodded at him, not trusting himself to speak—and then Goshiki smiled at him, and Shirabu wondered what he’d done to be stuck with him.

_This is why I don’t get involved with the people I’m supposed to kill._

 

Shirabu almost considered wearing a blue tie to go with the suit he was wearing, but decided against it in the end. While he would have liked to disobey Oikawa and get away with it, the chances were slim. Evidently, Oikawa’s connections extended beyond what Shirabu had originally estimated, and it wasn’t worth it to risk his life for a moment of amusement.

Shirabu hadn’t put together an elaborate disguise, but his plan wasn’t to get close enough to Goshiki himself. The easiest way to accomplish this would be to wait around until a decent amount of people cleared out of the vicinity and shoot, but they were still in a public area, equaling not only a greater degree of chaos, but also increased chances of getting caught. 

So even though Shirabu was armed—which would have allowed for a less messy kill, and lowered the risk of hitting the wrong person—he couldn’t risk using a gun, or another weapon that would require him to get any closer to Goshiki.

Shirabu didn’t want to take the risk of drugging Goshiki, but if worst came to worst, he would pay someone else to deliver the drink and demand that Oikawa pay the fee later. 

It wasn’t the first time Shirabu had forced an overdose, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. It wasn’t his preferred method of murder, but it would suffice, 

The retirement party Shirabu—and Goshiki—had been invited to attend wasn’t directly the result of the yakuza, but Shirabu knew that the man it was being held for harbored connections to them. It was impossible for Shirabu not to make small talk in order to fit in, but it was best to avoid those he knew from the yakuza, who would surely recognize him and would become suspicious of what he was up to.

Even worse would be if Goshiki somehow knew of his alias, and Shirabu was wrong about his lack of his involvement in the yakuza—but the reasoning was still strong that Goshiki had legitimately angered Oikawa somehow, because those in the yakuza were typically open about their affiliation with their syndicate, and often associated with each other over others.

Shirabu located Goshiki as soon as he’d arrived. He was sitting at a table with a group of a few others that looked to be around his age. He looked relaxed, had no problem laughing at jokes, and was happily picking away at the food in front of him. It wouldn’t be hard to chat him up and slip something into his drink when he wasn’t looking, or create a distraction and swap his drink when he got up, but now clearly wasn’t the time. 

Shirabu left the hall, exiting and making his way to an empty stairwell to get a chance to breathe. He took out his phone to check the time and debated on whether or not he should text one of his usual men for backup—Semi, even, if he predicted the job to be more difficult than usual.

He walked down the first few stairs and turned on to the landing, and his heart sank.

Oikawa looked up at him, and his face lit up. “Oh!” he said, as if he was genuinely surprised. “I was hoping to see you here.”

He broke eye contact to look him up and down, without attempting to be discreet, and Shirabu suddenly regretted not wearing the blue tie.

“What for?” Shirabu asked. The tone of his voice suggested lighthearted innocence, but he felt anything but that. 

_Oikawa is like a helicopter parent when it comes to these things. I should have expected this. When he wants something done right, he does it himself._

_It sounds familiar._

Oikawa laughed, and Shirabu cringed. He doubted that even Oikawa believed his laughter to be remotely convincing. “You know as well as I do,” Oikawa said, his voice lowering. “Were you on your way out?”

 _You know as well as I do._ “No.”

“Is your plan to drug him?” Oikawa asked innocently. “I could help you out with that, if you want.”

“I don’t need your help,” Shirabu said, scowling. “I don’t understand why you hired me if you were just going to kill him yourself.”

“Why, if I’m caught, I wasn’t the one mixing the drink, was I?” Oikawa said. The look on his face was chilling—dreamy, menacing, and terrifying. “Hand over what you have and I’ll give it to him. You don’t have to worry about a thing. You’ll still receive your pay as I promised.”

Shirabu never allowed anyone to carry out his kills for him. He did it himself because it was the only way to ensure that the job was done right. He’d concocted elaborate plans and had spent hours on disguises to go on to murder someone in less than two minutes flat, and it had been worth it and successful every time.

Some clients were more involved than others, but none were more bossy than Oikawa. To have a client offer to personally get involved and carry out a task he’d put time and effort into planning, as though it was an everyday chore for him, was degrading and shameful. Under normal circumstances, Shirabu would have turned him down immediately, in favor of preserving his dignity and protecting the pride he had in himself.

But his irritation was at its peak, and he was embarrassed for not realizing that Oikawa had been playing with him all along—likely not even due to a personal grudge, but because he simply found it amusing.

“Fine,” Shirabu said. He slipped his hand into his pocket and held the plastic bag out for Oikawa. Oikawa took it daintily. “I hope you didn’t want him to die painlessly.”

Oikawa snorted. “Any way will do. Thank you.”

Oikawa retreated back up the way Shirabu had came from, and Shirabu breathed a sigh of relief. Since he’d let Oikawa take over, he’d have to supervise him like a hawk, because he’d still be responsible for any mistakes Oikawa made. 

A few minutes later, Shirabu went back upstairs and got a drink. He made himself look busy with his phone, lingering around the bar, scanning the crowd for Oikawa. He looked up just in time to see Oikawa, drinks in hand, sandwich himself between Goshiki and the man next to him, slightly closer than what would be considered normal or necessary.

Oikawa said something to the table, and then passed one of the drinks over to someone across the table. They nodded in approval, and then he turned to Goshiki. Oikawa laughed and leaned in a little closer as he nudged the glass over to Goshiki. Goshiki said something to him and Oikawa winked back as he stood up with a flourish. Shirabu waited a beat longer, until Oikawa glanced over at him, because turning around and entering the hallway.

Once Goshiki drank, it wouldn’t take long before he first started feeling the effect of the drugs. It likely wouldn’t be enough to get him away from his friends until later on, and then there would be no turning back.

By then, Shirabu would be long gone. He assumed that Oikawa would be as well. He would reap the rewards of his murder later on, and that would be the end of it, as long as he covered his tracks well.

Shirabu stepped around a corner and flattened his back against the wall, breathing heavily. It wouldn’t be hard for him to get away, now, with the door in front of him and the drink in Goshiki’s hand. It would be safer to stay and wait to see if Goshiki fell for it, because if he didn’t, Shirabu had a backup plan that he would have to carry out before Oikawa sought him out.

“Shirabu-san, is that you?”

_I can’t face you after what I just did to you._

“Goshiki,” Shirabu said. Goshiki was looking at him with his head tilted as though he was confused—or concerned, maybe. The drink Oikawa had given him was clutched loosely in one hand. “I wasn't expecting to see you here.’

“I’m not sure I can say the same thing about you,” Goshiki said.

There was a moment silence in which they both looked at each other with bated breath. Goshiki didn’t break eye contact, and he looked back at Shirabu steady, without challenging him.

“Put the drink down,” Shirabu said slowly, “now.”

Shirabu never stayed in one place for long. He moved every few months out of necessity. He didn’t make friends. He didn’t keep in contact with his family because he couldn’t face the thought of them knowing what he did with his life. Shirabu lived behind an alibi. A handful of people in the world knew his real name.

And Goshiki, if Shirabu didn’t kill him, had the potential to reveal everything he’d been hiding for years, from his family, from himself, and from the world.

“Why should I?” Goshiki asked. The corner of his mouth twitched. “I want you to say it.”

Shirabu was too smart for this.

“Did you drink any of it?” Shirabu said.

“No.” Goshiki licked his lips. “So it’s true? You—you and Oikawa, you…”

“Put the drink down now,” Shirabu repeated. “Do you want to die?”

Goshiki flinched. He lowered the glass to the windowsill next to him. He let out a slow breath and said, “I didn’t expect you to really try to kill me.”

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s my job,” Shirabu said. Goshiki met his eyes; he looked dazed and disoriented, and Shirabu’s heart lurched. “How’d you know?”

Shirabu’s anger had fizzled out in his confusion, but was quickly replaced by disdain when Goshiki stalled. His eyes grew wide when Shirabu stepped closer to him—Shirabu wondered what he’d do if he let him see the gun he was carrying on him.

“I know who you are, and your reputation,” Goshiki said. He sounded near tears, but he didn’t look it. “I knew when you tried talking to me that you were going to kill me. I saw you come in today, and I saw Oikawa, and…”

“Why does Oikawa want you dead?”

Goshiki hesitated, but he took one look at Shirabu and continued. “I followed orders,” he said, and Shirabu was surprised by how genuine he sounded. “My parents, they… I grew up involved in the yakuza, and I… I wanted to do things right, so I didn’t say no, and now Oikawa hates me.”

“He sent me after you for…?”

“For many reasons,” Goshiki said breathlessly. He glanced toward the drink on the windowsill. “If you’re going to kill me, please make it quick. It was my mistake, coming here to see you. I thought…”

Shirabu had never considered himself for reform. He’d never really seen anything wrong with his work. There was a fine line between those who committed crimes and those who deserved to die, and Shirabu had never given much thought to the points at which that line blurred.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Shirabu said. “You’re too smart. You figured me out.”

“W-what do you mean? Oikawa will kill you if you don’t kill me.” Goshiki’s breath hitched. “Just do it. Please don’t make me wait.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Shirabu snapped. He stepped forward again, into Goshiki’s space, but this time, Goshiki didn’t move away. “I’m not killing you. Bring that with you and I’ll dispose of it. You’re coming with me.”

“Where are we going? Are you going to kill—“

“I’m _not_ killing you,” Shirabu growled. He paused. “Oh, you were—“

“I guess.” Goshiki laughed nervously. “I just can’t believe it. Are—are we—“

Shirabu reached forward and curled his fingers in the sleeve of Goshiki’s jacket. “Don’t you want to get away before Oikawa finds us?”

“Oh, yeah, of course, that’s what we’re going to do.”

Shirabu had never considered himself for reform, and if he was to be entirely honest with himself, it would take more than one botched murder attempt to reverse beliefs and habits that had been ingrained in him for years.

But for one person, Shirabu could make a difference, and for one person, Shirabu could serve proper justice.


End file.
